The Mistletoe Incident or the Subtle Hint
by Jellyhair
Summary: Sherlock has never been good at expressing his feelings. Opinions, yes, feelings, no. But John's been rubbing off on him and this Christmas, he's going to do things differently. Well, in his own Sherlockian way.


**A/N- **Hello! So this is my first ever slash fanfic and the only one I'll ever write. This was a present for someone on tumblr in Sherlock Secret Santa last Christmas (or the Chrstmas before, I don't remember) and so I thought I'd put it on here! It's a bit of a silly story and I don't often do romance, so please dont hate on me too much and try to enjoy!

**Disclaimers-** Yes, this is I, Moffat, living out my Johnlock dreams on fanfiction.

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"It's a shame really, isn't it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes still fixed on the body, "What is?"

"Well, y'know. Dying near Christmas."

"I don't see how it should make any difference to dying at any other time of the year," John rolled his eyes at the bored, monotone voice.

"Because, Sherlock," John said, adopting his special I-can't-believe-I'm-actually-explaining-this-to-you-Sherlock-voice, "Imagine not having your loved one there on Christmas day. Imagine not even being able to celebrate Christmas properly!"

"I'm sure I could manage to go without Christmas," Sherlock murmured, whipping out his small magnifying glass and looking carefully at the victims buttons.

"That's not the point, Sherlock," John sighed, "It's bad enough losing someone, but it's even harder at a time of the year when you're 'sposed to be happy."

Sherlock gave a non-committal "Hmm", not bothering to look up from his position. John sighed, frowning down at the body in question. A middle aged woman, knife wound to the stomach, lying flat on her back in a pool of her own blood. A very merry Christmas indeed. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging above them, "Er, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I think she might have known her attacker."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his steely gaze narrowing on John, "And what deduction did you draw that from?"

"Well, look," John indicated upwards and Sherlock's eyes followed, "What is it?"

"Well, she obviously was kissing him and then he pulls out the knife-"

"No, what is _that_?" John frowned, glancing up at the mistletoe and back down at Sherlock, who was wearing an annoyed and confused expression.

"You… You don't know what _mistletoe_ is?"

"Hence the question as to what it is. And why should it mean that he was kissing him just because there was some above their heads?"

John continued to stare at Sherlock, incredulity on his face, "How can you not know what mistletoe is, Sherlock!? It's _mistletoe_, it's what everyone puts up at Christmas!"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, "I probably deleted it on finding it a mere piece of trivia, now please explain to me what it has to do with her."

"Well…" a slight tinge began to creep onto John's cheeks as he murmured, "You hang it up and people kiss under it."

Sherlock's face continued to look bewildered, _"_Why?"

"It's… It's just a tradition, Sherlock. It's just what people do,"

Sherlock gave the offending mistletoe a raised eyebrow, "And so you think she was standing under this… _mistletoe_ hen she was stabbed?"

John nodded, "Well, it would make sense. There's no defence wounds on her, she wouldn't have seen it coming."

Sherlock rose to his feet, "Naturally. Well, John, I do believe you have, for once, actually made a viable deduction."

"And I think that's the closest to a compliment I'll ever get," John smiled, zipping up his jacket, "We leaving it to forensics?"

"What, to muck up all the evidence?" Sherlock flashed John a quick smirk, "Oh yes, I think we've got everything here."

John turned to leave and Sherlock followed him, turning to give the mistletoe one last look before ducking under the crime scene tape.

After the crime scene, Sherlock's mood turned dark. He was on his laptop constantly, veering it out of John's sight and scowling at him every time he glanced his way. Sherlock grew elusive to John. He grew moody, not leaving his room for long periods of time and snapping more often which, by Sherlock's standards, wasn't anything new, though it was rather disheartening as Christmas was approaching. And it was only three days before Christmas that John managed to discover just why Sherlock was acting so snappish.

Sherlock was sitting by the desk when John came in from doing the shopping, adorned in his blue silk dressing gown, face buried in a book. John glanced at him, giving a greeting, which was met by a grunt. John sighed, trudging his way towards the kitchen just as something fell on his head. He flinched, shaking it onto the floor and peering down at it. A sprig of mistletoe. Sherlock watched him, face still well hidden from behind his book. Frowning, John looked up at let out a yell, the shopping dropping to the floor with a crash, "Sherlock! What the fuck…"

The entire ceiling was covered in mistletoe. It was bustling with the leaves and berries, making their flat look like a greenhouse rather than a living room. John gaped at the sight, ignoring the the milk running across the floor. John managed to tear his eyes away from the bizarre sight to stare at Sherlock, who hadn't made any move from the position he'd found him in.

"… Care to explain?" John asked weakly, gesturing to the menagerie of a ceiling.

"You said it's what people do," Sherlock mumbled, the book still covering his face.

"They put up one bit Sherlock!" John yelped, "A few leaves, not a bloody canopy!" Sherlock remained silent, eyes fixed on his book. "Sherlock, why did you even do all of this?"

Sherlock glanced at John, before hurriedly turning away, "Come now, John," Sherlock murmured, "You were so good at deducting from it last time. What can you tell me about this mistletoe now?"

John frowned, looking up at the mistletoe and back at Sherlock. Sherlock. Mistletoe. Sherlock. Mistletoe _"Well… You hang it up and people kiss under it. Oh._John gazed at Sherlock, who was still reading _An Expert's Guide to Forensics _Mistletoe. It was beginning to make bloody sense now. All the moodiness, the hiding away in his room; he'd been ordering mistletoe, the perfect opportunity and excuse to give John a kiss. If only Sherlock could understand the meaning of subtlety in matters like this. Slowly, a smile crept onto John's face. He knelt down in front of Sherlock and carefully pulled down the book covering his face. He didn't think he had ever seen the man blush before. Sherlock's cheeks were alight as he gazed firmly at the floor, eyes anywhere but on John.

Smiling, John gently tipped up Sherlock's chin with a finger, finally making eye contact with the brilliant azure eyes, "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, the smile alight in his voice, "Do you want to kiss me?"

Sherlock shrugged, "It's what people do at Christmastime, isn't it?" he mumbled.

" You've seemed to go to great lengths to make sure you get a kiss," John said, nodding to the leaves above them.

"I… This is what people do," Sherlock murmured.

John beamed, "You like me, Sherlock," the sleuth's eyes darted up at this, "And that's okay. That's… That's brilliant, in fact. But you didn't have to buy three sackfuls of mistletoe just to tell me."

"Four sackfuls," Sherlock mumbled, smiling a little. John grinned. The fingers on his chin slid to Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock glanced up at him. "I thought… I thought it'd be easier to be a blunt."

John snorted, "Not easy putting all of this up though, eh?"

"No, it was a bloody nightmare," Sherlock murmured, grinning as John's laughter chimed in the room.

"And so have you been the past few days," John pointed out.

"I had to get you out of the house. It would be a bit conspicuous if I was carrying in sackfuls of mistletoe around."

John sighed, smiling at the man before him. He rose to his feet, "Well, if we're going to do this, let's do this properly," the doctor pulled Sherlock to his feet and pulled him under the mistletoe. Both men smiled at one another before slowly, tentatively, they pulled each other closer, as John pressed his lips against Sherlock's. The detective "hmmed" in slight surprise, before sinking into the kiss, arms wrapping around John's waist. It was brief and tentative, both still coy and slightly cautious. They pulled away, smiling and breathless and flushed under the greenery.

Sherlock gazed down at John, who beamed up at Sherlock, "Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock murmured. John smile widened.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
